The Hurting Sounds
by CFWalklin
Summary: Isabella Violet York, "Ivy", was granted a very rare gift at the time of her birth: The ability to communicate with not only animals, but instead with ALL living things. Mankind will call on that gift when all hope seems to be lost...
1. Stacking the Odds

Special: 

**1** **:** distinguished by some unusual quality; _especially_ **:** being in some way superior (our _special_ blend)  
**2** **:** held in particular esteem (a _special_ friend)  
**3** **:** readily distinguishable from others of the same category 

{Source: Merriam-Webster's} 

I have met thousands of people in my thirty-two years on this Earth. Sadly, most are either shallow, cruel, material, or so preoccupied with physical appearances that I find it difficult to be civil to them. Most of the time, I will insult them so callously that they have no choice but to disassociate themselves with me. I cannot stand people possessing these foul qualities, and my blunt rudeness, coupled with a fair vocabulary and a savage tongue, is at it's zenith when folks like that meet me... 

In addition to the rotten though, I have met some truly beautiful people along the way, as well. However, sadly, they can be easily counted on one hand. A member of this group has absolutely no idea just HOW special she is. She sees not the gifts she offers the world, without EVER requesting ANYTHING in return. Selfless people such as her never realize their own worth. I do. I see it, and am grateful to have the honor to call such a special person my friend. I have yet to meet her equal, and am positively certain that I never will. 

This story means a great deal to me; so, I beg those wishing to review, that they give me an honest account of what they think of it. I cannot achieve absolute perfection, but I will certainly pursue it tenaciously... 

** ~The Hurting Sounds~**

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** ~One ~ Stacking the Odds~**

"You've done a lovely job on them, Ivy." Said Mrs. Berkson, Isabella Violet York's neighbor. "What is it that you do to them that makes them grow so quickly, child?" 

"I'm not sure ma'am. But if I touch the dirt around plants, my hands tingle; and if that happens, the plants grow." Ivy replied, kneeling in her small vegetable garden in front of her mother's mobile home, dropping the zucchini seeds into the dry, lifeless Southern Arizona soil, with her cut and bleeding fingers. 

"Well, I'll be watching them extra carefully this time, honey." Mrs. Berkson added with a contemptuous tone, watching the delicate little girl with fascination. "I'll have Sampson bite the next person to hurt your garden, Ivy..." Sampson, being her Irish Wolf Hound. 

"Maybe they were just hungry, Mrs. Berkson..." Ivy replied with a shrug, while lifting her gaze to meet Mrs. Berkson's. "They probably needed them more than I do..." 

"You are far too good for this world, child." Mrs. Berkson said, with a small smile, and slight shake of her head, turning away and walking back to her own trailer. 

Her task complete, Ivy climbed the creaky stairs into the trailer. With a stab of horror, she caught sight of "Uncle Scotty" sitting on the ratty maroon couch, holding a fifth of Wild Turkey whiskey in his grimy right hand. He was still in his "Ron's Rolling Auto" coveralls, which were as filthy as the rest of him. He smelled as if someone had dropped him in a vat of rotten grease, then bathed him in Wild Turkey... 

Scrunghing her nose at the rancid smell, and fixing him with a piercing blue-eyed stare, she said nothing. She merely stood in the doorway, wishing her mother would have finally had the nerve to say enough was a enough. But, evidently her mother had taken him back, and forgiven him for slapping her around yet again. 

How many times this had actually happened in the past three years of Scotty and her mother, Regina "Reggie" York's on again, off again, relationship, Ivy could not recall. However, she was willing to wager all that she owned, that it had to have been at least twenty-five instances... 

Scotty, had never been above hitting her mother, but had only hit Ivy once during one of many drunken tirades. This was due to the fact that he had come away with angry red blisters on his hands, just by touching the girl. Shortly after that incident, he had ceased hitting her mother in front Ivy, opting instead to "straighten her out" when Ivy was at school, or nowhere near his proximity. Though the big tough guy known around the town of as "Swingin Scotty" would never admit it, he was scared to death of the little girl called Ivy... 

Ivy felt that it was not possible for her to hate anyone. However, "Uncle Scotty" was the worst and easily most abusive, boyfriend her mother had ever had, and she desperately wanted to hate him. 

"The fuck you looking at?" Slurred Uncle Scotty. "You're a fuckin creepy little kid, you know that?" 

Saying nothing, Ivy walked to the rear of the trailer, where her mother was passed out on the bed. Ducking into her mother's bathroom, she quickly washed the crusted blood and soil off of her hands. As she dried her hands and sighing heavily, she walked over to her mother's sleeping form, removing her boots. 

"Mommy?" Ivy said, shaking her gently. "What do you want me to cook for supper?" 

"Oh, n-nothing for me, honey." Her mother said sleepily, stifling a yawn. "Just cook something up for your Uncle Scotty, ok?" Rolling over onto her side, she fell back to sleep instantly. 

Ivy had been dreading this... 

Now, not only must she put up with his rank smell and his ugly disposition, but had to cook his dinner for him as well. 

"Uncle Scotty?" Ivy asked politely. "What do you want for supper?" 

"Anythang but that shit ya got in that garden..." He answered, with a cold and slurred tone. "Aint never seen me a garden grow so fast. What the fuck ya doin to them things?" 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, UUUUncle Scotty..." She offered sarcastically, hating him for certain now. "What do you want to eat?" 

"Mind yer tongue there missy!" He roared drunkenly. "Gonna have ta teach ya a lesson one a these days!" 

She knew for a fact that he was scared to death of her, but just wanted the cooking to be done and over with. Turning away from him, she stalked off to the kitchen, while he turned back to his baseball game on the t.v. She had no sooner set foot into the tiny kitchen, when a large and ancient looking grey barn owl flew through the open kitchen window, and landed on the tiny dinette table, with an envelope attached to it's leg. 

"What the fuck is that there thing, ya creepy little shit?" Uncle Scotty said, springing to his feet and wobbling towards the table, to offer his drunken analysis of the current scene. 

Ivy had no idea what an owl was doing in her mother's kitchen. Stranger yet, was the fact that it had an envelope tied fast to it's left leg. Quickly, she approached the owl, wanting to get to it before Uncle Scotty could succeed in delivering his inebriated carcass to the owl first. 

When she was close enough to touch it, the owl held the letter up for Ivy to take. With a hand that shook slightly, she snatched the letter and quickly stuffed it into her waistband; hoping that in his currently incoherent state, he had not seen it... 

As Uncle Scotty walked into the kitchen, Ivy's spirits lifted considerably, thrilling her with a huge jolt of relief. Evidently, he had not seen the letter that would have him demanding the letter immediately. 

However, her elation was VERY short lived, as Uncle Scotty had now seized the owl. Though the bird beat it's wings frantically, and was shredding the man's chest with razor sharp talons, Scotty held fast to it. 

"FUCK!" Thundered Scotty, as the owl nipped his right index finger, severing the finger nail, and the first half-inch of flesh as well. "GODDAM THING BIT MY FINGER OFF!" 

Having said this, Uncle Scotty began beating the owl's head against the table... 

"NO!" Screamed Ivy, horrified. "Let him go Uncle Scotty, p-please... He's scared... Please let him go..." She sobbed. 

"Fuck you, and fuck this here bird!" He announced triumphantly. "Fuckin things dead anyway... I was hopin it'd last a little longer s' all" He said with a shrug, tossing the handsome barn owl's carcass to the kitchen floor like a piece of garbage. 

"How could you?!" Ivy shrieked, dropping to her hands and knees, looking into the unseeing eyes of the battered and bloody owl. "WHY?! Couldn't you hear him screaming?! He was scared and you killed him! You are a very bad man..." She said, with a strangled voice, raising her tear stained face to look into the jubilant face of Scott Henderson. 

"What the fuck ya talkin bout?!" He replied through a toothy grin. "What screamin?" 

"He was screaming that he just wanted to go home." Stroking the owl's still warm feathers gently, she cast her back upon the bird. "Y-Y-You're an evil man!" She choked. 

"We gonna get on that there screamin shit kick again?" He chuckled. "Your a kooky fuckin kid! Ya just ain't right..." Turning on his heel, and without another word, he ventured outside through the front door. 

"I-I-I'm sorry..." She whispered raggedly to the bird, placing her hand flat against his soft feathers, stroking him softly. "He is a very bad man, and Mommy always says bad people get what they deserve..." 

Cradling him in her arms, she made her way to her room, and placed the dead on her bed. She vowed to bury him after supper, in a place where Uncle Scotty would not find him. 

Ivy reasoned, from a similar experience, that he would just dig him up again. Just like he had done with Tobious, her cat, and dance his body in front of her face for hours. Laughing his horrible and cruel cackle, while she cried, and begged for him to stop. 

Ivy lay the owl on her bed, placing a blanket over him. Still sobbing, she made her way back to the kitchen. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she set to work. 

At the very moment she pulled eggs out the refrigerator for her meat loaf, the screams started. When those screams in particular sounded, a horrifying nightmare became reality - Her garden was dying... 

'Oh, no...' She thought inwardly, bolting for the door; hoping she had been mistaken. 'No... Maybe it's just a dry lawn... Summer is over, and it will be back in the spring...' 

Wrenching the door open, and peering apprehensively into her garden from the stairs, Ivy, at once, had her worst fears confirmed: Uncle Scotty was grinding his work boots into all of her flowers and vegetables, and singing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer while killing them. 

Ivy snapped... 

The fact that Ivy was only eleven, very skinny, and had absolutely no idea what she could possibly do to hurt this man, never even crossed her mind. 

Seizing a shovel from the tool shed, Ivy made her way to the garden. Moving quietly, she was able to sneak up behind Uncle Scotty, and hit him with every ounce of strength she possessed. However, her strength had not been equal to the task for a drunk man that stood six-foot three-inches, and only served to draw his ire... 

Ivy never saw the first punch coming, as it connected cleanly with her left temple. As a result, her vision began to blur, and there was an odd ringing in her ears. Falling to the ground in a heap, Ivy was only dimly aware of the other punches and kicks raining down on her face, chest, and stomach. Uncle Scotty, unaware of his hands being badly blistered, pounded away on her delicate frame... 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Ivy only caught tiny snatches of sounds, but she had distinctly heard a dog's bark, and a shout of, "Sampson, get him", and "Yep, he's dead all right... Lets drag this piece of filth out of the way...", "You poor, poor child" sobbed a woman's voice. 

As the moments ticked by, Ivy's breathing was becoming more and more labored. The only desire she currently possessed was that of sleep, but all of these people were making too much noise, and they kept lightly patting her cheek. 

Turning her face slowly away from that annoying patting, her blurred vision caught sight of someone, a man, being dragged by one arm. But it couldn't be a man Ivy reasoned... No, that man's head was flopping around at impossible angles, and missing half of the neck beneath it. 

It must have been a movie prop of sorts, was Ivy's last thought as the darkness took her. 


	2. The Sentimental Trooper

**Two ~ The Sentimental Trooper**

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Reggina York stirred and mumbled groggily, still clinging to the drug-induced slumber. "Ivy! Get the door! I'm tryin to fuckin sleep here!" She groaned, pulling a pillow over her head. 

'Bang, bang, bang,' The fist of the police officer hammered on the door again. "Mrs. York! Police department!" He thundered. 

"IVY!" Reggie shrieked, but was greeted by silence, save for the relentless pounding on the front door. "Shit..." She sighed, rolling out of bed. 

"I'm comin, Godammit!" Reggie shouted, weaving her way to the front door. 

As she drew nearer to the door, the shouts, shrieks, and excited voices could be heard coming from the road in front of the trailer. Wrenching the door open, she gazed blearily into the face of a huge Hispanic Arizona State Trooper, with the name, "Sanchez", tacked to his broad chest. 

"What is it now, Sanchez?" She asked in a routine manner, as if she had done this only days before. "What did Scott do this time, and where is he being held?" 

The blood drained from his face, as it contorted with a cold fury. For his entire career, he had never witnessed a case of Child Abuse this appalling; and here was the mother of a child that probably wouldn't survive the night asking about filth first. 

Resting his large hand upon the rubber Pachmayr Combat grip of his Colt Python .357 Magnum, he entertained the idea of shooting this piece of shit in the face, point blank. Just blowing her brains all over this foul smelling house. However, as his fingers closed around the grip, an image of his own children, growing up without a father, stopped him. Breathing deeply, he removed his hand from the weapon, and let his arm fall limply at his side... 

Desperately trying to keep his composure, and frantically searching for his voice, Seargent "Tito" Sanchez took several more deep breaths, then spoke... 

"R-Reggie..." He hissed dangerously. "The very LAST thing you need to worry about is that guy. Already heaved that piece of garbage into the meat wagon. I'm quite sure you wouldn't want to pick him up this time..." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Reggie snapped, suddenly looking a bit more alert. "What are trying to tell me?" 

"He's DEAD!" Replied Sanchez triumphantly, with a heavy emphasis on the word 'dead', and a sadistic smile curling his lips. "Your neighbor's dog nearly took his head clean off... Well, just between us," he whispered, leaning in closer, "I probably could have saved him, since I was cruising by when old Mrs. Berkson flagged me down, but I was a hell of a lot more concerned with your daughter. And to tell you the truth, hearing him scream like that before the dog severed his windpipe was music to my ears. We haven't been able to find the animal, but when we do, I'm buying him a fat steak!" Finished, he stepped aside so that Reggie could see her daughter sprawled on the driveway, her left arm twisted into a grotesque angle, wheezing raggedly, and wetly coughing up blood. 

Seizing Reggie by her hair, he pointed to the broken little girl and boomed into her ear savagely, "WHERE IN THE FUCK WERE YOU, WHILE THAT MONSTER DID THIS TO YOU LITTLE GIRL?!" 

"I-I-I..." She choked, hot tears burned their way down her cheeks. "Ivy?" She muttered feebly. 

Now, seizing her by the chin roughly, he thrust his face so close to her's that their noses nearly touched, and his hot angry breath reminiscent of a dry Arizona mid-day gust, huffed into her dead eyes mercilessly. 

"That's right..." He hissed. "Ivy... Your little girl... Where were you? Why was that man allowed to break that little girl? WHY?!" He roared. 

Mouthing silently, Reggie squeezed her eyes tightly shut. 

"So help me God..." Sanchez breathed, pushing her face away from his in disgust. "It takes a great deal of self-control not to kill you where you stand. In fact, the only thing that is saving your wretched neck is MY little girls... You're every bit as much a monster as he was, and maybe worse. How many fucking Domestic Disturbance calls have I PERSONALLY answered here, Reggie? thirty? More? YOU KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN!" He snapped. 

Sanchez paused, desperately fighting the urge to snap her neck like a dried twig, then said with a cold whisper, "If that little girl dies, so help me, I will not rest until I have seen that justice has been served. You look like a fucking haunt. Let's have you get some proper clothing on," he said, eyeing her with revulsion, "and take a ride to the place where, if I have any say in the matter, you'll spend a good many years..." 

Silently, with a slackened face, she turned and led him back to where her bedroom was located, and made to close the door, but was stopped short by one of the trooper's boots. 

"Lady..." He said, effortlessly yanking the door from her grasp, and tearing the lower hinge away from the jamb. "You couldn't pay me enough to look at the wares you peddling. Just get dressed, I'll be by the front door. Try to run, and I'll empty my revolver into you, got it? You have five minutes. Let's get a move on..." 

Backing slowly toward the front door, Sanchez rested his right hand on the butt of his Python, readying himself, should the need arise to jerk it free of it's holster. He figured that Scott might have kept a gun in the bedroom, and judging from that deer in the headlight look this horrifying excuse for a mother possessed, she might be fool enough to attempt using it on him. At least that's what he was hoping for, as visions of the battered and broken little girl laying shattered in the driveway tortured his mind's eye... 

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled a tin of Skoal Bandits free, seized a pouch, and popped it into his lower lip. Just as he had finished slipping the tin back into his breast pocket, he heard the loud crack of a gun, and the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the floor... 

"Seargent Sanchez!" Came another officer's excitedly from his radio. "Shots fired?" 

Yanking his own revolver loose and crouching low, he inched slowly toward the bedroom, business end of his revolver pointed at the doorway. 

"Affirm..." Sanchez replied evenly. "Shots fired, rear of domicile. Clear to rearmost bedroom..." 

"Copy..." Answered the other. 

"Reggie?" Called Sanchez loudly, glancing back quickly, as two other officers burst through the front door. 

Waving his left hand for attention, Sanchez motioned for one to stay at the front door, for the other to move around to his left, and pointed to the bedroom. Continuing his deliberate trek, he had now closed the gap to five feet, and caught scent of the tell-tale coppery and metallic smell of fresh blood permeating the air thickly. 

His first glimpse into the bedroom caught sight of Regina York, less most of her head and it's contents... 

Nodding to the officer on his left, Sanchez took a good pull on the plug between his cheek and gum, spit on the floor, and said through a bemused smile, "Well, it looks like this one saved the taxpayers of this fine state a few bucks. Somehow, I don't think many folks will miss her... What say you Kline?" He finished, eyeing the ashen-faced rookie trooper on his left. 

"Uh..." Kline replied, and promptly vomited. 

"My sediments exactly..." Said Sanchez, with a nod, holstering his pistol again. "Stebbins..." Sanchez called to the other trooper at the door. 

"Sir?" Stebbins replied. 

"You and the kid here get this wrapped up, would ya?" Sanchez said, delegating the work detail. "I'm gonna head back and get started on my reports. Any word on that little girl?" 

"No sir..." Said the other. "She flat lined twice, but she was still hanging on when they loaded her up..." He finished hopefully. 

"Alright..." Sanchez sighed, turning away from the mind-blowing scene, he made for the door, and was very nearly beheaded by something large and grey, sloughing off a little girl's Polly-Pocket blanket. Throwing himself to floor, he quickly looked up and caught sight of something you didn't see everyday...In broad daylight...In the Arizona Desert: An ancient looking, large and grey barn owl, taking graceful flight into skies high over head... 


	3. All Around the Mulberry Bush

**Three ~ All Around the Mulberry Bush**

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The stranger gazed up at the marquee that read: 

**The Garden Cinema**

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**Monster Monday Matinee - **Two For One****

**Stygian Motion Pictures Presents:**

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**"Dr. Stanley Gipshaw's Gruesome Reality IV - Visions of Death"**

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**SEE! What happens - When a motorcycle rider without a helmet meets the asphalt at seventy miles an hour...YOU will be taken into the morgue, for an uncut viewing of the live autopsy!**

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**FEEL! The heat - As victims trapped in a hotel fire, are left hopeless, and plummet forty stories to their death...YOU will have an uncut first-hand viewing as they hit the pavement!**

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**HEAR! The screams - As a shark victim is bitten in half only feet from shore...YOU will shudder with the stunning clarity of this amateur video shown in it's uncut, bite-for-bite entirety!**

**PLUS! Dr. Stanley Gipshaw traveled the globe to bring YOU:**

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**Trainwrecks, A shopping mall shooting massacre, Executions, And even his own suicide after completing this film!**

Pedro stood at the Garden Cinema's ticket counter, resting his elbows upon it, and his chin resting in his hands, gazing blearily at the theatre entrance. 'Nice fucking day for a double!' He thought savagely. Why had he answered the phone, anyway? He knew damn well is was going to be that puto boss of his, Ray. It always was... 

"Pedro, I need you today man! Sandra didn't show again..." Ray had said frantically over the phone. 

"Damn Ray! I can't today man... I have plans with my girl, amigo. I can't this time..." He had grumbled in reply. 

"I'll make it up to ya, Pedro. Please, I need ya bro!" He had plead dramatically. 

Yeah... Sure Sandra wouldn't show. "Ok, Ray, but my girl, Amanda, aint gonna be happy man. You need to get us a crew that shows up bro..." 'Let his wife catch them this time...' He had mused wistfully, as he hang up the receiver. 

Who was he kidding? Ray wasn't gonna get rid of that slut. She was a cheap ass toy, while his ugly ass rich wife was outta town. Why didn't he just quit this job? Just tell that fat ass Ray to go fuck himself... 

'Because...' Said that little voice in his head. 'Your girl is pregnant man. You need to be strong for her munchacho! Marry her, and get your own place holmes...' 

"One please." Said the movie goer, in a high pitched, eerie voice. 

"Four-fifty..." Said Pedro mechanically, reaching for the twenty dollar bill the customer held. 

"Keep the change!" Said the man, tracing a finger softly across the back of Pedro's hand. 

Suddenly, Pedro had an image of his fiance, Amanda, waiting for the bus that would take her to the well baby clinic. He had promised to take her, but was stuck at this pinche movie theatre instead. 

"You should have been with her today, Pedro..." Said the man, as a cruel sneer crept across his lips. "Amanda needed you today, and you promised her. The Aztecas wanted revenge didn't they? You shot up their leader's eight year old brother, remember? You're too late, amigo..." 

Another image played into Pedro's head, where three late teens, wearing Azteca colors, were dragging Amanda into a white windowless van, kicking and screaming, as the van drove away. 

Shaking his head to clear it, he realized that the man had gone into the theatre, and was now approaching the snack counter. Where the man had touched his hand felt cold and filthy. He was not entirely sure how he knew his name, because he had forgotten his name tag at home. He definitely did not how this man had known Amanda's name. However, he knew that something bad had happened to her, and he had to find her... 

Pocketing the twenty dollar bill, Pedro tore out of the ticket office. 

"Pedro! Where ya goin man?" Shouted Pete, the theatre usher. 

"I quit, Pete!" Pedro thundered, breaking into a sprint for his Firebird. "Tell Ray to go fuck himself for me amigo!" 

"Large popcorn, extra butter, please." Said the man, chuckling softly, as images of Pedro's fiance being passed around inside the windowless van flitted through his mind. 

"Three fifty." Said Chip, the concessions attendant, handing the man his popcorn, and accepting the twenty note. 

"Keep the change, Kipper!" Sang the man, brushing Kip's hand lightly, in the same fashion he had brushed Pedro's. 

Chip froze, as an image of his father slithered into his thoughts. He hadn't thought of that man since the day of his death, nearly ten years ago. He was the only person that had ever called him Kipper... 

"Why did you call me that? Do I know you?" Chip asked in a hollow voice, sounding nothing at all like his own, as the blood drained from his face. 

"Just one more picture, Kipper." The man drawled, in the voice of Chip's father. "You took your momma boy. You owe me, so just let me take one more. Then you can put your clothes back on..." 

Chip's breath caught, rendering him unable to say what he so desperately wanted to shriek at the top of his lungs. That being, 'You're dead... You can't hurt me anymore! I killed you myself, you son of a bitch'. Motherless since birth, Chip and his father were the only people that could possibly know of these things. 

"Yes Kipper, you did..." Cooed Chip's father, dressed in a stranger's skin. "But I'll see you soon enough boy..." 

Turning away from the trembling young man at the snack counter, the man entered the theatre, while humming the words to 'All Around the Mulberry Bush', under his breath... 

"What the hell was all that about Chip?" Asked Pete, noting Chip's trembling, white knuckled hands grasping the concessions counter, and wild, frightened eyes. 

"Oh that was nothing, Pete." Chip lied, fighting to compose himself. "Just not feeling too well today is all..." 

"What was that creepy dude sayin to you man?" Pete pressed. 

"Hell, I wasn't even paying attention Pete." He lied again. "Hey, where did Pedro go?" Chip said, casting around for anything that would quell the visions flooding his thoughts. 

"Oh shit!" Pete swore, having been properly distracted. "He quit man. Quit and asked me to tell Ray to go fuck himself..." 

"Well, we gotta have someone to sell tickets bro." Chip said shakily, as composure continued to elude him. "I'll take em, if you wanna work the counter for me..." He finished, hoping to put as much distance between himself and that creepy fucker in the theatre. 

"Whatever man." Pete replied with a shrug, trading places with Chip. "What the hell is that dude doin in there?" Pete thought he had heard the stranger laughing. 

"Jesus Christ, Chip!" Pete spat, turning his face to the theatre occupied by the stranger only; as Chip made his way to the ticket booth on unsteady legs, without so much as a glance back. "That creepy dude IS fuckin laughing! Can you hear that? Most of em just fuckin throw up. Aint never heard no one laugh at that gory ass shit before!" 

"Yeah..." Chip replied dazedly, unable to understand a single word Pete had said, focusing his undivided attention on the ticket booth. 

The movie screen began flashing images of the twisted wreckage of a derailed train. As the workers removed body parts of children and adults, the stranger giggled and clapped, showering popcorn all about the seats and floor. 

"Oh!" He cried rapturously. "Plenty more where that came from! Oh yes, my best work is yet to come! No hope! No hope!" He sang, clapping again as he watched a woman jump from a fifteen story parking structure, landing with a sickly wet slap. 

He sighed contentedly, settling back into his seat to watch the rest of the show... 


	4. Armageddon's Humble Beggining

**Four ~ Armageddon's Humble Beggining**

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"Shit...I hate this job..." Sanchez breathed, peeling his gun belt off, tossing it onto his couch, seizing a note on the coffee table, and flipping the television on. 

**News Anchor:**

"Muslim extremists," Paul? is this right?! whispered the anchor in disbelief, covering his mic and addressing the man at the teleprompter, who nodded yes. "e-evidently under orders from Russian President, and recent Islam Convert, Igor Volkev, have seized Isreal's foreign embassy in Moscow. They have threatened to execute one diplomat every fifteen minutes, if Isreal refuses to remove occupying forces from the West Bank and the-" 

Removing his eyes from the news anchor he had only been half watching anyway, mumbling, "More fucking war talk...", Sanchez seized the note his wife had left on the coffee table, scanning it quickly. 

"Honey, 

Be home a little late. Mom wanted to go shopping with the girls. You'll have to fend for yourself as far as dinner is concerned. 

Love you!" 

"Figures..." Mumbled Sanchez, switching the set off, getting heavily to his feet and sauntering to the door; intent on checking up on Ivy's condition, and grabbing something for dinner afterward. 

Climbing into his cruiser, Sanchez watched benignly as two B-2 Spirit Stealth Bombers, and two F18A Hornets scorched the Arizona skies overhead... 

**~~**~*~**~~**

"My Lord? You wished to speak with us?" Drawled the voice of Lucius Malfoy, waving a hand at the Death Eaters that had just appeared into the living room of Voldemort's home, formerly belonging to the Dark Lord's Muggle father. 

"Ahh, Lucius..." Said Voldemort, turning in his high-backed Victorian Style chair to face the other. "Yes Lucius, old friend. Death Eaters, I am afraid we must take refuge in the chambers that this Portkey will deliver us for many months..." 

"My Lord, I beg you tell us why?" Asked Bellatrix LeStrange, bowing deeply and stepping forward. 

"Ahh, it is a long story Bella..." Replied Voldemort indulgently, getting to his feet. "But one best told far beneath the earth that will have changed drastically by the end of the tale's telling. Haggleton is far too close to London for it to be safe to remain here..." 

"Yes My Lord..." Said Bella, bowing deeply again, and rejoining the other Death Eaters. 

"Very well..." Voldemort said, indicating a Portkey that had been placed on a table in the center of the room. "We should depart now, faithful Death Eaters. I shall divulge the details for the need of such measures once safely away from here. This plan has required the utmost stealth, but cannot fail..." 

With this, the collective group of Voldemort and fifteen of his most loyal Death Eaters, touched a finger to the tarnished silver platter, and instantly transported to a large and dark, yet lavishly refined concrete chamber, far below the earth's surface... 

**~~**~*~**~~**

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"HARRY POTTER!" Bellowed the voice of his uncle Vernon, as he absentmindedly stroked Hedwig's feathers, as she sat hooting softly in his lap. 

"Now what..." Harry mumbled, placing an indignant looking Hedwig back into her cage. "I know, I know...He can't have heard you. He probably just wants to unload on me for something he just made up. It's been a couple days, you know? I daresay he's missed doing it for long..." 

With a hoot of understanding, and a playful nip of his finger, Harry turned from Hedwig's cage, trudging down the stairs as if he were headed to the gallows... 

"Yes?" Harry asked sneeringly, spotting his uncle sitting in his favorite chair next the phone. "What is it I've done now?" 

"Don't take that tone with me boy!" His uncle retorted, with his face adopting a violent plum color. "One of your freaky friends is on the phone! How many times must I tell you to not let them call here?!" He roared. 

"I have told them!" Harry bellowed defiantly, seizing the phone. "Still scared of Mad-Eye-Moody, are you?" He said silkily, delighting as Vernon's face drained of color instantly. 

"Ahh.. That would be it then?" He quipped, then directed his voice at the receiver. "Hello?" 

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked into the phone, clearly panic stricken. "Harry turn on the Muggle news! Harry it's starting!" 

"What's starting Hermione?" Harry asked apprehensively, turning his gaze to the television. 

"Another false alarm..." His Uncle Vernon chortled. "Any reason to raise our taxes even higher. I wonder how many chaps they had to hire from Hollywood to pull this off?" 

With one quick glance at the television, Harry dropped the phone, and it clattered to the floor. 

On the television, an ICBM impact countdown was given from seven-minutes forty-five seconds. Three missile were said to be en route to the Royal Air Force Staion Lakenheath, situated some twenty five miles from Cambridge, England. Two others were poised to hit downtown London in a little over ten minutes. 

"HARRY! HARRY!" Came the muffled and terrified voice of Hermione. "Grab what you can in the next three minutes, then apparate to my house... Dad has a fallout shelter! The Weasleys are here... Oh Harry...Please hurry!" 

Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he rushed up the stairs, threw stray clothing and his broom into his trunk, seized Hedwig's cage, and pounded down the stairs as air-raid sirens began to squeal. 

"Don't tell me you believe this rubbish?" Quizzed his uncle, who, besides Harry, was the only one home; his Aunt Petunia and Dudley were shopping. 

"Yes I do!" Harry said breathlessly. "This is something that Voldemort might try to make happen..." 

"Hogwash!" Vernon scoffed. "Another ploy to raise taxes it is!" 

'How ironic...' Thought Harry bemusedly. 'A Muggle if ever there was one, yet he sees magic before he'll recognize something completely Muggle...' 

"Good bye, Uncle Vernon..." Said Harry sadly. "I don't expect we'll be seeing each other again..." 

With a loud pop that startled his uncle, Harry disapparated for the first time since receiving his license, appearing in the Granger's living room, as the countdown's completion loomed... 

****

**Dateline:**

**August 13, 2004**

**19:32:41 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time**

**Peterson Air Force Base - NORAD Command Center**

**Cheyenne Mountain**

**Colorado Springs, CO**

****

"Wilson, prepare to authenticate..." Barked General Mack Dawson. 

"Sir!" Wilson replied smartly, cracking the red launch code card next to his terminal, and quickly reciting the code: "1A893HRCDD7T31Q5J" 

"Authentication confirmed..." General Dawson said heavily, removing the launch from his neck, and swiftly moving over to Wilson's terminal. "Insert launch key." 

"On my mark..." He said, wiping the perspiration from his brow with a trembling left hand. "Three...Two... God, please forgive us...One...MARK..." 

**~~**~*~**~~**

"Time's up! Time's up!" Said the stranger in the movie theatre, clapping his hands delightedly, fidgeting in his seat. "Can't stop it now! Time's up!" 

Chip continued to stare at the hand which the stranger had touched, and simply did not hear the air raid sirens screaming their warnings. He was also unaware that the stranger had sliced the throat of Pete, and that his fellow theatre employee was now in the throws of death... 

"Doing you a favor, Kipper..." The stranger breathed, brandishing the same razor that he had cut Pete's neck with. "I am not completely unmerciful..." He cooed. 

"Yeah..." Chip muttered, nodding numbly. "Favor, yeah..." 

As the blade cut deeply, and Chip's body began to twitch spasmodically, the stranger began to hum the tune to "All Around the Malberry Bush" once again... 


	5. Operation Ivy

**Five ~ Operation Ivy**

The large black dog watched through yellow eyes that darted right to left quickly, listening intently with perked ears. He waited on his haunches for the old woman. But no human: Wizard nor Muggle, had happened by in what seemed like hours. He was thirsty. It must be after six p.m., he reasoned, and the salty-metallic taste of the Muggle's blood still lingering in his mouth, served only to intensify his need for refreshment. 

This shaggy coat was not helping much either, he mused. He decided that a few minutes in his human form might be more comfortable, and if he stayed low, the chances of being discovered were remote... 

"Ahh, that's better..." He muttered, walking out of the alley with his cloak draped over his arm, wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. "Dammit!" He swore. 

With a glance at his wrist watch, he discovered that he had had been correct in his assumption of the time: it read six-eleven p.m. They had one-hour and eight minutes to get the girl, and get out. It would be cutting a very fine line indeed. 

So where was she? He was not going to take any chances. Though he had grown very fond of her in the past two months, and was worried about the old woman (she had NEVER been late before), this was bigger than she and he. It was time for action, even if he must walk the streets and find a Muggle to point him in the right direction. 

"Mister, don't look around, don't move, and don't yell..." Said a voice, resembling a chain saw badly in need of a tune. 

A man had walked up behind him and pressed, he assumed, a small pistol angrily into his spine. With the slightest of movement, he painstakingly withdrew his wand, standing stock still. 

"Aint no wallet back here, so bring bring it out real slow like, drop it, and walk on. If you turn around, I will shoot you in the face, understood?" Said the man behind him. 

"Before I answer your question, Muggle," Said the man, with a bark like laugh, "you must first answer mine... Are you sure that this is what you wish to do?" 

"Mister, I aint in the fuckin mood. I don't see no wallet back here, so I'm guessin it's in that jacket you got. Just drop the fuckin wallet, alright? You got till the count of three..." 

"Very well..." Said the man in black, heaving a great sigh, and shrugging nonchalantly. "Have it your way... I do not own a wallet, so you'll just have to kill me, I guess. But I really must ask...Won't you be needing these?" He finished by brandishing eight gleaming Remington .32 automatic hollow point center fire pistol cartridges. 

"What the hell?" Whispered the other in disbelief. "How did you do that?" 

"When will you Muggles ever learn?" Said the man in black, now turning to face his assailant that had turned to bolt. "Things ARE NOT always as they seem..." He finished in a growl. 

"STUPEFY!" Belowed the wizard, pointing his wand at the center of the thief's back, where the jet of red light struck home, dropping the man, while his empty pistol clattered away harmlessly. 

Strolling casually to the spot where he lay, and rolling the attacker onto his back, the black clad wizard drew a sharp breath of surprise. He had expected to see a man, not this boy. He could not have been a day over thirteen, reasoned the black clad wizard. 

The boy was filthy, malnourished, and looked as if he had already lived a very hard life... 

He was keen to know how a boy so young could possibly be so very destitute. Upon closer inspection though, track marks were peppered in abundance on both of his arms, his teeth were rotting out of his head, and the dark circles under his eyes gave him the appearance of a near-cadaver; making homelessness one of the least worrisome aspects of all... 

'ENERVATE' Said the wizard, training his wand on the unconscious boy. 

"What happened?" Asked the boy groggily, then turning fearful eyes on the black robed man, and quickly searching for an avenue of escape. "How did you do all of that shit?" 

"That is not important, young man..." Said the other softly. "However, it IS important that you tell me where your home is... Why is a youngster, such as yourself, roaming the streets like this?" 

"I'm not going back there mister!" He exclaimed, attempting to stand. 

He was unsuccessful in doing so, since the black robed man had bound his hands and feet with a quick snap of his wand. With eyes wide, he settled back to the pavement. 

"That's better..." Drawled the wizard impatiently. "I do not have much time lad, and you're making this much more difficult than it has to be. Answer my question, and I'll see to it you are on your merry way. I can get the answer, one way or another, Muggle boy... Which way shall it be, eh?" 

"I don't have any parents mister. Been dead two years now. And I don't give a rat's ass what you do to me, I aint goin back to that 'home' them social worker folks put me in... No fucking way no ace! And what is that you keep calling me? Muggle, is it?" The young man asked, keenly eyeing the wooden wand thing that this dude so easily made, for lack of a better word, magic with... 

"Well, it sounds like your mouth could use with a good tidying, but nevertheless, you have answered my questions." Said the wizard, settling onto to the streets curb, and fixing the other with a piercing stare. "What I am about to do, is not allowed. I am breaking a decree that might have me cast back into the very place I was pardoned from only weeks ago... 

"First things first, though..." said the wizard, offering a long fingered hand to shake. "What is your name?" 

"Roland, sir... Roland Kroniger..." He said, grasping the larger hand firmly. "And your's?" He asked. 

"Sirius Black, Master Kroniger: Escaped wizard, convicted of killing thirteen people with a single curse, sentenced to a life term in Azkaban..." Said Sirius, his lips curving into a grin. 

"Now..." Said Sirius, getting to his feet. "I have a job to do, and I could use your assistance..." 

"Ok, since I'm not number fourteen," Said Roland, climbing to his feet, as his face split into a boyish grin under old blue eyes, and greasy brown hair, "I guess I owe ya one... You didn't really kill all those folks did ya?" 

"Well, the entire world of wizard, save for precious few, seems to think so. You are just going to have to trust me young man, are you not? To show my good faith, here is your, what is that Muggle wand thing called?" Asked Sirius, running a hand through his long black hair, and pointing at the gun some thirty feet away. 

"What are you talkin about?" Roland asked, following Sirius' long finger. "Oh, you mean the gun?" Turning his palms up and shrugging. 

"ACCIO-GUN" Sirius said, catching it. "Here..." He said, handing it and the shells to the boy. "You might be needing this." 

"This is too much!" Said Roland, adopting an expression of boyish wonderment, that one might see when their son opens his favorite present on Christmas Morning. "Where did you learn to do this shit?" 

"It's a long story, and I daresay in the coming weeks and months there will be plenty of time to tell it. I'll start the tale after you direct us to Tucson General Hospital, on Campbell Avenue. On one condition..." 

"Alright, I'll play along." Said Roland, still grinning as he loaded the automatic. "What's the condition?" 

"That you start talking more like a boy, and not a Turkish Sailor, ok?" 

"Fair enough..." Roland replied wryly. "But I really gotta ask... What exactly ARE you? And what's with that fu- that accent? What are you, from England or somethin?" 

"All in due time." Sirius replied, with a slight bow. "Now, I must change into something a bit more comfortable. If we get too close, I will be seen, and believe me, we DO NOT want that..." 

"I'll take your word for it..." Roland replied, with a shrug and sardonic grin. 

Howevever, when Sirius the man took on his Animagus form of the large black dog, Roland very nearly lost consciousness... 


End file.
